


king & lionheart (are still only men)

by xochisui



Category: Naruto
Genre: (Unofficially) Married Fluff, Hokage Itachi, M/M, Non-Massacre AU, Overworked Husbands Who Worry Each Other Too Much Sometimes, Romance, Some light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-10 19:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20856791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xochisui/pseuds/xochisui
Summary: The first time Itachi’s dream slips from his heart and into words, it’s out of Shisui’s mouth—that’s when it feels real.





	king & lionheart (are still only men)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted this on my tumblr a while back as a Secret Santa gift for nitohkousuke, but I wanted to finally put it here, too, so I can tie it into a collection ^^

The first time Itachi’s dream slips from his heart and into words, it’s out of Shisui’s mouth—that’s when it feels real.

They’re sitting in their favorite spot, on the cliff that overlooks the Nakano River, two pairs of feet dangling over the edge. From here, the river is a ribbon sparkling in the evening light, winding along beside trees that look so small, like a map found on a child’s toy. Toys that other children got to play with.

Itachi is six months a chuunin, all skinny limbs and round in the baby-pudge of his cheeks, barreling down the path of being the youngest shinobi ever accepted into the Anbu—still just a child in a world ruled by men. Men like the council elders, his father, Yashiro and those others always grumbling in his father’s ear. Like hateful mosquitoes. The thought of their influence twists his stomach. Itachi wishes he were grown—things would be better that way. But because he's not he needs to hurry, then, and become powerful enough to make a difference. He’s told Shisui so, but for some reason it sparked a laugh from him. Amused by his straightforwardness, probably. Yet somehow it felt tinged with melancholy. Someday he’ll understand.

Around them the sunset is slowly expiring into dusk, thick banks of clouds in the west stained purple with residual light. Shisui’s dark eyes are molten when he turns to face him.

“I really think you’ll be the link between the clan and the village center eventually, Itachi. A true link, who’ll set an example for both sides.”

The sudden declaration doesn’t feel completely out of the blue. Voicing their worries to each other has been the dominant conversation between them for some time, and things are only getting worse. He isn’t sure what to do with the note of hope in Shisui’s tone.

“Because of my Anbu acceptance, you mean.”

“That’s always been a dream of mine for you.” The admittance prompts him to turn away almost shyly, fixating back toward some un-seeable spot in the distance.

Light pours fully into his features, his hair. Watching him like this, Itachi can’t help but find it mesmerizing, the fire in his friend’s expression. For him.

Shisui meets his gaze again, smile broad, eyes soft. A warmth that’s come to be contagious. “I can’t wait to see how much you accomplish. I bet you’ll even become Hokage.”

Itachi has never shared his dream with anyone. Hearing it out loud for the first time sends his heart beating faster, crescendoing into a hammering in his chest. It’s hard to tell which emotion washes over him first, the shock, happiness—or fear. He’s terrified of how badly he wants this. For so long, to even speak it to himself has felt like an invitation to jinx his ambitions. He still hasn’t realized he’s holding a breath. And here Shisui is, saying he’ll be Hokage like it’s the most obvious outcome there is. Itachi’s eyes grow hot, his vision blurring. The tightness in his chest becomes too much. 

“Shi—" It sticks in his throat; if he tries to speak, he knows he won’t be able to stop his tears from spilling. His friend’s name means more than a name right now. Shisui is kind enough to stare ahead meanwhile.

“I’ll do anything I can to help that dream along, Itachi.” Under the softness of his promise, lies something fierce.

All Itachi can offer is a fervent, whole-hearted nod, still too overwhelmed to reply. Someday he wonders if it was wholly gratitude that he felt in that moment for his friend. Or if that was just the beginning of a realization winning him over. Maybe this was the moment another kind of camaraderie began to bloom.

*

And, maybe, had Shisui never materialized it into those first idealistic words, they would have continued to simply drift around weightlessly inside Itachi’s head.

“You would’ve become Hokage no matter what,” Shisui tells him, late one night when the stars are peeking down at them and Itachi is feeling more ponderous than usual. “When I think of all of the people who could take that position—it couldn’t be anyone but you.”

*

In truth, it was impossible. _Literally_ impossible—by policy, by his namesake. By the fact that the swelling tension between the clan and the village would have undoubtedly mounted into another war.

How many sleepless nights had he spied on both sides, reported to each, planting secrets this way and that, like one of his own crows carrying paper notes?

Standing in the Hokage’s office—_his_ office—is surreal. “Too good to be true” seems like a phrase that’s often thrown around, but this—this is not an act of kindness from the universe, but something Itachi practically battled for against Fate itself. It’s not the status that excites him, but the responsibility, the change his own hands are finally capable of. _Now the real work begins_.

“I still kinda wish we could’ve been in the police force together,” Sasuke admits. He says it good-naturedly while nursing a beer. “I used to have this vision of us, going on patrols together all the time once I became a jōnin.”

Truth be told, Itachi still isn’t quite used to seeing his baby brother so grown, inviting him out for celebratory drinks. He even picked the bar, with his refined preference for the heavier, locally-brewed stuff they offer here. 

“We’ll be working together more closely than before,” Itachi reassures. He adds, hoping to quell whatever uncertainties remain, “Besides, you know I’ll do my best to make time for you, whenever you need me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, I know.” He says this, but his gaze lowers, into the ochre pool in his cup, his reflection somber. He still clings to his big brother so much; his attention, his guidance.

Unable to resist, Itachi reaches a hand out to ruffle his hair—Sasuke grows it out longer now, especially his bangs. If he were anyone else, Sasuke would protest; he gives his older brother a look that tells him so, that Itachi’s come to know so well. It brings a chuckle rumbling up to the surface of him, already high on happiness as it is.

“There you two are.”

Shisui’s late arrival is marked by his out-of-breathness, the way he’s still clad in Konoha uniform instead of his usual casual wear around the Uchiha compound. 

“What took you so long?” Sasuke demands. 

“Errands, here and there.” He doesn’t give any more explanation as he scoots himself into the seat close by Itachi. Whatever it was, he might tell Itachi about it later; the not-subtle-enough wink confirms this, but luckily he can just disguise it as blinking a bit of dust from his eye. An eyepatch covers the other side, diagonally across one brow, ever since he lost it–since it was stolen, sacrificed in the name of peace. He fixes the brothers with an expectant sense of cheeriness. 

“So Sasuke, you get Itachi to give you a tour of our new place?”

“I haven’t had time,” Itachi replies for him. “I’ve been preoccupied lately.”

“It’s fine. Big Brother already gave me a spare key, so I can barge in any time,” Sasuke adds coolly. 

“Woah—what? Did I agree to this?”

“Mn, you might’ve been half-asleep at the time,” Itachi teases. 

They eat, tell stories, and laugh. The new Hokage, a police lieutenant, and jōnin-Anbu captain. Allowing the world to slow into simple moments, enjoying each other’s company. 

Later, they prepare to leave, making their way out into the balmy night air of the city street, when a hand slips into his. “Hey.”

Shisui tugs him subtly to a slower pace, so Sasuke is out of earshot, strolling ahead with hands in his pockets. The look his friend gives him is hard to place; even when pained, the corners of his lips seem perpetually curved into that melancholy smile. It’s sincerity, Itachi realizes, raw and heartfelt as can be. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you amid all of this–well, everything, but…you know I’ll support you no matter what, right?”

Itachi blinks. The answer is such an obvious one, he’s unsure how to reply. Shisui’s voice is low, almost secretive, like he’s getting something off his chest he can’t hold inside any longer. 

“I want you to rely on me. For anything. There will always be obstacles, and you’ve already come so far, Itachi, but…I want to do anything I can to take some of that weight off your shoulders"—the hand squeezes around his, sending a signal of warmth through his body—"So don’t worry about giving me the really tough missions, okay Hokage-sama?" 

With that, the air around them is bright again, like the first day of spring. Itachi can’t help but let it suffuse him. Fill him to the brim with gratitude and admiration.

"Of course.”

Shisui’s grin seems to bear light on its own, set apart from the shops and bars and lanterns strung up surrounding them. 

“Just think, you and Sasuke will handle everything within the village, and I’ll take care of all of the outside threats.”

In this moment, Itachi truly believes this is what it must mean to hold happiness: another palm wrapped snug against his own.

*

He feels a presence beside him. Itachi’s eyes snap open, deft hands ready to snatch the kunai hidden beneath his pillow before any intruder could fathom the motion. He turns, expression deadly, and there, where he expected to find an empty, cool place in the sheets is Shisui, still in his jōnin gear.

_He’s home_. The adrenaline begins to calm. Shisui is here, and mere inches from him. So exhausted that the sudden movement didn’t seem to wake him. Itachi eases back down on his side facing him. Slides an arm across his waist and pulls him closer, so they are wrapped together in the blankets, pressing a kiss to him as gently as his excitement will allow.

Shisui smiles drowsily against his lips, small laughs beginning to tumble from him as Itachi finds more area that’s gone un-kissed too long—his chin, his neck, the corner of his mouth where it’s helplessly twisted up. “I’m home,” he breathes.

“Welcome home.”

“Did you get a lot of official Hokage business done?” His smile gets that teasing edge like it always does. It’s cute, Itachi thinks. “Making the village a better place, one policy at a time?”

“Of course.”

This time Shisui’s jaw slackens for him, his mouth warm and inviting.

Afterwards, they doze off together in each other’s arms, the best sleep either of them’s had in some time.

*

The mission lasts three months. It’s not the longest a mission’s lasted—some escort assignments have required jōnin teams for up to a year. But that hasn’t made it any less painful in the hollow Shisui’s absence carved in him. 

*

Hokage duties are often enough to keep him from dwelling on it—dwelling on anything besides work, really.

The relationship between the clan and the village has improved drastically—miraculously—but yesterday’s prejudices won’t disappear so readily. It’s mostly the old men who’ve been lording over politics all this time—of course. _A Hokage from the Uchiha clan could be too emotional, too eager for war. The Senju line started the Hokage tradition in the village, it only seems right to keep faithful to that line. The Uchiha cannot be allowed too much power—_

Itachi lets it bounce off him with calm and poise. He’s popular enough in the village (in part because of his looks, as Shisui delights in teasing him about) that the elders won’t act against him outright, and his notoriety from the Anbu, the way his dark eyes pierce and intimidate, has earned him plenty of respect from others, albeit grudgingly so, from some. He has always had adversities stacked against him—has always known what he’d be getting himself into on this path, and the crest on his back has felt more like a target for scrutiny long before taking any sort of office, if he’s being honest. Even with Danzo out of the picture now. To bear the weight of his family’s expectations, the safety of the village on his shoulders, like Atlas, solid, in solitude—

_No, not in solitude_. He retracts that thought with a slight shake of his head, as if to ward off any more from appearing. _Sasuke and Shisui are with me_. Sasuke has taken over as chief of police, as well as over the rest of their clan; everyone is brimming with pride in the man his younger brother’s become, Itachi most of all. And Shisui…

Shisui works tirelessly out of devotion for him, mission after mission. For the dream they share. They’re both still cementing it into reality in their own ways, one challenge at a time.

*

The creeping in of day through the blinds forces him to roll over, but his sleep’s already been disturbed. The clock on the desk reads 9:37. He can’t remember the last time he slept in this late. Shisui stretches his legs under the covers, resolute on not leaving his warm cocoon just yet, twists to stretch his back, following it up to his arms. He scrubs the itch around his one good eye with a finger.

He already knew, the second he woke, that Itachi wouldn’t be here—Shisui’s team arrived back in the village sometime in the early, godless hours; the other man hardly stirred when he crawled in beside him. It’s a mild disappointment, nonetheless.

He lays on his back, pushing unkempt hair from his forehead. _Don’t have to get up, can’t get back to sleep_. Maybe he’ll just spend the day like this, until Itachi gets home for the night. He indulges that crackish fantasy for a moment—his lover finding him poised on the bed, the sheets drawn up so he’s showing just enough, but sensually not _too_ much, completely at the other man’s whim. Maybe some rose petals scattered around, even if he has to pick them up off the bed after they’re done. _If_ he comes home tonight.

Maybe it’s the thought of his boyfriend that causes him to look over just then, but there’s a folded slip of paper resting on the pillow where Itachi’s head normally lays – “_Coffee is ready when you are. Talk to you later_.” Succinct, straightforward. It’s sweet just the same though. Certainly enough to warm Shisui’s insides pleasantly with the gesture.

He yanks his phone off the charger from beside the bed and opens his messages.

“_Thanks for making coffee! I wish I could’ve seen you before you left. I missed you. Do you get any breaks today?_”

His thumb pauses over ‘send,’ rethinking it. Itachi wouldn’t have time; the question feels ignorant now. He tries again.

“_Thanks for making coffee! Can I return the favor by bringing you lunch later?_”

He hits ‘send,’ then pulls the covers closer, staring at the little screen for an answer. Minutes go by. A half hour. The inactivity begins to pull him gradually back into sleep.

_He was too busy after all_, Shisui thinks.

*

Wine makes him handsy; he and Shisui both know that. Yet late in the evening, the first dinner he and Shisui could have together since who-knows-how-long, Itachi finds himself coaxed into a few cups rather easily. For once the dining room table is cleared of official documents and inkstone.

He’s the kind of tipsy now that sinks with languor into his bones and makes the bed seem to rock gently under his body despite laying still. Alcohol stirring heat around inside his belly and spreading out to heavy limbs, making his head feel like it holds an ocean. Another throb near his temple, and the waters are lapping at the walls of his skull. Shisui is his anchor now, as he always is whenever the saké-haze overtakes him, with Itachi’s hand splayed on his chest to reorient himself.

That’s the reason. Of course. He starts to roll the pad of his fingertip over one areola of a nipple in slow, experimental circles. Brushing it over the nib to circle it again, clockwise and counter-clockwise, with almost detached fascination. It peaks obediently at his touch. Probably darkens to a duskier shade, too, Itachi knows, even if he can’t see the change in the dimness of the room. The skin there is taut and inviting. How tempting, the idea rests in him, it would be to take the nipple between his finger and thumb and just _pull_.

He smooths his palm over Shisui’s skin, over the firmness of his abdomen, up to gently stroke his cheek. His thumb slides back and forth, curving below Shisui’s eyepatch. He wears it even in bed—he won’t say it, but it’s a point of insecurity in his appearance. Itachi wishes Shisui believed him when he tells him how beautiful he is.

“Mn,” Shisui hums, still feigning sleep. Itachi’s smile stretches with that hint of mischief he’s adopted from him.

“Too much to drink?”

“I was thinking, actually. Let’s go on a vacation one of these days.”

“Vacation?”

It’s met with a huff of a laugh. “Yeah! Why not? You know what a vacation is right?”

“I know what it is.”

“I was thinking…it’d be nice to go to a hot springs somewhere. Just us two.” His hand slides up Itachi’s back, rubs casually at the spot between his shoulder blades. “We could have saké like this every night.”

“I can’t think about any more saké right now,” Itachi groans, pressing his face into the crook of Shisui’s neck. He feels the reverberations of Shisui’s laughter through his throat.

*

When they touch, it feels electric. Like waves crashing, rolling devotedly into the shore, again and again. Like sunlight filling a barren room. But they hardly touch anymore. Shisui is constantly gone. There is always more paperwork to do.

*

He’s asleep, but looks utterly weary, with bruise-colored bags puffed under his shut eye, peeking below his eyepatch, his Konoha flak crumpled in places. Shisui’s hair has grown longer, those once-cheery curls devoid of their usual bounce now as they spill over a headband that sits slightly askew across his forehead.

What started as a light head-cold that followed him after his visit to the Mist Village has possessed Shisui’s body in full fever. Itachi takes care to undress him without requiring too much movement, setting aside headband, flak jacket, shirt. He slips the eyepatch off last. A ring of grime from sweat and dust has formed around the prunish swathe of skin there. Itachi wipes it gingerly with a cloth, rinses it in a bowl of clean water and dabs at Shisui’s forehead. His brow furrows slightly under Itachi’s touch, mouth moving silently, fumbling to surface from whatever painful visions haunt his dreams.

“Shh,” Itachi tries to soothe. “Shisui, it’s okay. You need to save your energy.”

“I’m sorry,” he finally makes out. Itachi freezes in his ministrations the second he realizes it’s not sweat, but tears streaming down into his hair, out the corner of one eye. He has never seen Shisui cry. Not in a broken way like this.

“I-it’s okay,” he repeats. Swallows. “I should be the one to apologize. You’ve been working yourself to death recently. I should’ve—”

Should’ve pressured him to retire? Used his executive power to deny his own lover from taking long, dangerous missions? It’s not a good look either way. But how do you wean a trained warrior from the only purpose they were taught to aspire to?

“It’s _my_ fault.” He’s fully awake now, staring feebly up at the other man. For a moment, the only sound is the rain pattering at the window. Shisui tries to smile at him weakly—tries to soften what needs to be said. “I should have been more careful.”

“You’ll get better soon. Just stay in bed and rest.”

“That’s not what I mean. I was the one…who told you a true shinobi sacrifices himself. I’m afraid I encouraged you to become a workaholic.”

Itachi wills the worry to smooth from his expression, tries to match Shisui’s humor. “I’ve always been like this. You always told me I’m stubborn, remember?”

“Yeah, but I mean…we used to think we were so noble…not caring what happened to ourselves. If we lived or died.”

“Times were different when we were young.” _When we were young_. When did that era, that honeymoon of hope, come to an end? He continues wiping Shisui’s face. Rinses the cloth again and wrings it tight. “I’ll never think you weren’t a good role model. You took care of me. No one else knew how to do it the way you always have.”

“Hm.” He looks eased for a moment. “And now I feel like you’re the one always taking care of _me_. But it’s also kind of nice…we really feel like we’re married.”

“In sickness and in health,” Itachi agrees softly.

Rain is coming down harder now, filling the room like a tangible presence. Like a subtle visitor. Strong hands squeeze water out of the cloth again.

“I should’ve taught you to love yourself as much as I love you,” he starts again. “If I were really wise. You deserve to enjoy this peace you worked so hard for. But I end up worrying you so much. I’m sorry…”

“You never have to apologize to me,” Itachi tells him, as gently and firmly as he can. “You made me the man I am, Shisui.”

_I wouldn’t be where I am without you_.

_You deserve this peace and more, too_.

But still he mumbles, “I’m sorry, ‘m sorry…”

*

_Do you remember when we used to send each other crows at night sometimes?_

_I think so. Why do you bring it up?_

_No reason. It was just fun. They were for silly little messages, nothing important—like, anything that was on our minds. We could’ve used cellphones to text each other. But we _wanted_ to use messenger birds._

_I didn’t have a phone back then._

_No, but you also said you preferred our crows anyway. I believe you also said it felt more ‘romantic’ that way._

_Did I?_

_Yup!_

_Ah. Well…now I feel a little bad, though. We worked those poor things without letting them rest._

He laughs kindly.

_I dunno, my crow Kurota was pretty energetic. He probably liked the exercise. Flying at night, when the air is cooler, must’ve been nice, too._

_Mn. Maybe._

_Sometimes I feel envious of birds. Do you think that’s weird?_

_I think everyone does at some point._

*

Leaves catch the twilight and glitter when a breeze ruffles them, as do the streams of dark-haired people making their way in groups up the Nakano shrine’s steps. Itachi observes them idly, certain that none of them can see him where he lingers on his spot at the cliff. He sits looking out, watching the sun gradually dip below the horizon, behind the whole of the village, a hand resting on the rim of his hat so the wind doesn’t carry it away. 

“You’re not going to the clan meeting?” a voice behind him asks.

He can see Shisui’s expression without even looking–the tired lines of his face edging closer to being wrinkles every day, the playful glint in his eyes merging with sunlight. 

“You’re not going, either.”

“Sasuke’s got it covered just fine. I doubt he needs me there.” He approaches and lowers himself to sit beside Itachi, side opposite of where the Hokage hat rests. 

They gaze out at the sunset wordlessly for a time, just basking in the poignant finiteness of day. Colors are melting in the clouds before them: peach into orange, limned red around the edges, slowly deepening, purpling like a bruise. Itachi is the one who breaks the silence first. 

“We used to come here and train all the time.”

"Yeah,” Shisui says on top of a sigh. “We couldn’t stay away from this place.”

“When was the last time we actually trained together?”

“Hm.” His gaze trails up the sky, thinking—it really _is_ difficult to remember. “It’s been several years, I think. At least.”

_Several years_. It feels like lifetimes have passed. 

“I’m sorry. I know it’s mostly my fault. The strain I’ve put on–”

“Itachi,” Shisui cuts in gently. “It’s okay. Over time things just…change. It’s no one’s fault.”

Shisui’s hand slides up his arm, to his shoulder. His thumb smooths little circles, coaxing Itachi without words to lean into the touch, to let it fill him the way Shisui’s mere presence can fill him so completely. The view on the cliff still looks the same sideways, with his cheek pressed against Shisui’s shoulder. He feels safest here, close to his best friend’s skin, his scent. The way he and Shisui relax against each other so easily, breaths slowing, syncing. They have been through so much, yet still carry such hurt inside them. Itachi wonders: Why isn’t cherishing each other enough? But then it seems clear. This kind of devotion will drown them both if they are not careful. 

“Let’s spar. Right now.” He rises so abruptly it nearly unbalances Shisui.

Shisui stares up at him at first, perplexed. But obliges. 

They face each other, in the clearing bordered by trees. On opposite ends, as ritual demands. Readied stances, Itachi’s haori and wide hat abandoned to the side, they sense in each other the unspoken signal to begin, and fly toward each other. 

They are twin streaks of lightning in the evening glow, the glint and hiss of Itachi’s shuriken-jutsu tautly matched against Shisui’s tantō blade. Their bodies are made of fire, bright red as the sharingan swirling their irises, their sweat turning gold, then their bodies are silhouettes dancing with dusk’s descent. The match goes on longer than either man can remember one of their spars lasting; not out of competition, but a need for this to never end. It courses through their blood, crashes in their ears, with the impact of every blocked hit the other delivers. 

It ends without either of them really winning. By now a few stars have appeared overhead to watch. Both men are doubled over, heaving, and practically collapse into one another, onto the soft grass, trying to gulp air into their lungs, both wearing the same flushed grins. They’d be laughing if either had the breath for it. 

Cricket song fills the air as the panting subsides. 

A sense of peace washes over Itachi. Here, with an arm pressed against Shisui’s, both of their backs against the warm earth. Grass for their pillows while they stare up at the night sky and trace constellations with languid gazes. It’s a sight burned into his childhood. One of the first official missions he accompanied Shisui on, there was a moment when they paused to stare at the stars like this.

“I’ve been thinking,” Itachi murmurs into the stillness. “About what you told me–about worrying each other.”

“Ah.” There’s a tinge of reservation. Itachi reaches for his hand, threads their fingers.

“You taught me the meaning of self-sacrifice, but I feel like I’m the one who’s been sacrificing you. Or letting you do it to yourself. I don’t want that anymore.”

Shisui turns his head, mouth crooked into a small smile. “Are you asking me to retire?”

“Not exactly,” Itachi explains. “I just want you to stay in the village more—with me. As an advisor.”

“An advisor. As in, everywhere you go, I’d go, too?”

The reaction Itachi has been wondering about, tinged with notes of tentative longing. The very same he’s felt all this time in asking.

“I think we’d be just as efficient a pair if we keep together, don’t you?”

Shisui turns back to the stars, and Itachi follows, and the night has never looked so promising. Itachi could almost swear he spots several tiny glimmers burning through the dark he’s never noticed before. 

“Yeah, I think we’ll be happy that way.”

*

_The future is brighter when you see it with me, by my side._


End file.
